Thrice Frice Bice

I have a pile of miniature elbows
in my face,
and when I come to and begin
to relish your presence in my
heart attack,
I will sing a song of "Sick Spence,"
that serial killing singing frog
from three towns over,
over there,
where I see the sky is falling
and the world is falling apart.

Goddamn, I'm sad.